


stillhet.

by absolut_svensk



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolut_svensk/pseuds/absolut_svensk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants so badly to say something, but every time he tries, his words die in his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stillhet.

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably preface this by saying that I consider this work to be - at least for me - a little bit experimental. I've never attempted to write in the second person before, so it was very... different to write, not to mention the fact that I've probably completely bastardized both Skwisgaar and Toki's characterizations. To liberate a phrase from Charles: for the record, I tried.
> 
> This is dedicated to sskwigelf, the Skwisgaar to my Toki, and a wonderful human being in general. Thank you for being an amazing friend!
> 
> 'Stillhet' is Swedish for 'stillness' or 'quietude,' which seemed fitting, and is written from Skwisgaar's perspective. An optional musical accompaniment is Winterfylleth's "Aefterield Fréon"; start after the third break.
> 
> Please approach reading this like you would trying to pick up people at a bar. The more you drink before you start, the better the experience is.
> 
> And, lastly, I can't write regardless of the language, and for that, I'm sorry.

The first thing you notice is that he holds himself differently.

You’ll never admit that you’ve always admired the way he’s built. Broad shoulders. Strong arms. A flat, toned stomach tapering down into a slender waist, narrow hips, powerful legs. He’s the embodiment of youth and vitality (or at least he was, once upon a time, because you remember him as such) with a figure that could make _David_ himself weep. And you remember that watching him move was just like poetry in motion, for he is all powerful lines and tanned skin and tense muscles.

Now his shoulders droop heavily, as though he’s weighted down by some unseen burden, and he scuffs his feet as he walks, dragging the tips of his boots through the mud. He won’t ask for help--whether because of pride or stupidity--but he looks tired, as though he’s aged a thousand years in as many hours, and you wonder if maybe your mind is playing tricks on you, if whole years have passed, instead of months.

(It’s only been months, Charles reassures you, and the word _only_ makes you taste bile in the back of your throat.)

The whole way back, he doesn’t say a word, and neither do you. It’s not for want of things to say, though--your heart is full of them, but there’s a disconnect between it and your lips. The silence makes you hurt in a way you’d previously never thought possible, and yet you still cannot find a way to break it. The inches between you may as well be miles for the chasm that’s now separating you.

He doesn’t look at you. You don’t blame him.

\--- 

You keep vigil the first night. The others do, too, at least for a while, but soon their heads begin to droop, hanging limply on their necks like they’re testing the limits of gravity. And, one by one, the waiting room empties. Murderface is the first to go, muttering something about caring being gay. Nobody has the heart to say a thing when he gives the room one last look before shuffling out. Pickles follows shortly after, and with him Nathan, and that leaves just you. 

You sit on the hard plastic chair and pinch your forearm between finger- and thumbnail, trying to stay awake. Noticeably absent is your guitar, but there was no sense in bringing it when your palms are far too sweaty to hold it properly, anyways.

(Your hands have never trembled before. Tonight, they do.)

His room is tiny and bathed in fluorescent light; the walls are pale and painted a sterile green, and if you stare at the tiles long enough, you can almost make out your reflection in the floor-wax. You quickly tire of that, though, instead focusing your attention on the steady beeping of the monitors. The air here is thick and reeks of bleach and chlorhexidine gluconate, and you try to breathe as shallowly as you can (but not as shallowly as _he_ ) lest your nose start to burn and your eyes water.

And _he._

The bed, while hardly large by anyone’s standards, seems to absolutely swallow him, and he looks at once both too tiny and too fragile as he lies there. The way his chest rises and falls, too, makes you feel ill at ease, if only because you can see his ribs sticking out with each breath, because you can count all the cuts, all the bruises.

(You get to twenty before deciding that you do not like numbers very much.)

Once or twice he stirs and you look up, your eyes darting from his face to the EKG readout and back again, and though you are no doctor--all you know about medicine, you learned from _General Hospital_ \--you fancy the numbers onscreen are not normal, that the waveforms ought to be different, that someone as young and strapping and once-healthy as he ought to have a far stronger heartbeat.

(When you lean in and press your ear to his chest, your suspicions are confirmed; it flutters weakly behind his ribs like a caged and dying bird and for the millionth time that night, your stomach does a sickening somersault.)

You have a million things to say. A million ways you could break the silence, but your throat is too tight, and every time you part your cracked lips to speak, nothing comes out.

\---

When next you open your eyes, the light in the room is different; upon second glance, you realize that several hours have passed, that the moon now hangs high in the sky. The stars are bright and shimmering and you wonder (of all things) why you’ve never noticed how beautiful they are before.

(Why it took tragedy to make you appreciate the beauty in even the most mundane things.)

You find the constellations easily enough. Ursa Major--that’s the one he taught you to find. Some of the planets, too. It’s so stupid, all of it--but the pricking in your eyes is not from tiredness, and you know it.

His cheekbones are sharp and jutting and his skin is sallow; sweat glistens on his forehead, his mousy-brown hair damp with it. Finally, you work up the courage to touch him, and are almost surprised when he doesn’t crumble to dust beneath your fingertips. He looks so fragile like that. He should never look fragile. It’s not right, it’s an abomination. It makes you sick, makes you angry.

Your fingers pass through his hair once, twice, three times. When you retract your hand, a clump of hair falls away with it, and you can do nothing but stare at it in horror. It doesn’t become real until you shake it off onto the floor--then your breath catches and your lips quiver and you put your head in your hands.

“Skwisgaar.”

Your heart leaps into your throat at the sound of that voice--it’s _his_ voice, and you’d know it anywhere, even if it’s cracked and raspy and broken. And you look up and find that his eyes are half-open, that he’s staring at you, a faint smile on his chapped lips, palm upturned, fingers spread.

Your hand slips easily into his; not long after, you find that the contours of your body were made seemingly for him to press himself up against. You’ve never been a warm person, in any sense of the word, and yet you’re all too happy to let him seek that from you, to let him rest his cheek against your chest.

At first his grip is slack; there’s no strength left in his broad, callused hands--and that’s wrong, you think, absolutely, horrifically wrong, because he has always been built like a working man, like he could do anything.

(You are lean and willowy; he is supposed to be powerful, and the fact that you are now so much stronger than he, that his bones crack and pop when you wrap your arms around his shoulders, makes a part of you that you didn’t even know existed ache terribly.)

And then his hold tightens and he presses his face into your chest. You pull him close, not even realizing he’s crying until he’s soaked your shirt clean through with tears and snot. His shoulders shake, but he doesn’t make a sound--which surprises you, since he has always been one for outbursts before. Maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe it’s a newfound maturity. Maybe he, like you, is searching for the words to say but cannot find them. You’d like to think it’s the latter, but you can’t be certain, and your heart breaks all over again at the thought of that childlike flame in him going out.

Finally, he quiets, and you use the corner of your shirt to wipe the mess from his face. When he curls into a little ball, you arch your back and wrap yourself around him, and the two of you come together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

He says nothing; neither do you. But every time his breath catches, you’re quick with a nuzzle, with a squeeze for his forearm, with a comforting touch.

For the first time, he is the melody and you the harmony; each time his heart beats, yours responds, and when he shifts, you do, too. Your lips are still half-parted, no sound coming out--you could try for a thousand years, but you will never find the words to explain how you feel, no matter the language.

Somehow, though, you think he knows precisely what you mean.


End file.
